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SATIRE VII.

One of Horace’s slaves, making use of that freedom which was allowed them at the Saturnalia, rates his master in a droll and severe manner.

I have a long while been attending [to you], and would fain speak a few words [in return; but, being] a slave, I am afraid.  What, Davus?  Yes, Davus, a faithful servant to his master and an honest one, at least sufficiently so:  that is, for you to think his life in no danger.  Well (since our ancestors would have it so), use the freedom of December speak on.

One part of mankind are fond of their vices with some constancy and adhere to their purpose:  a considerable part fluctuates; one while embracing the right, another while liable to depravity.  Priscus, frequently observed with three rings, sometimes with his left hand bare, lived so irregularly that he would change his robe every hour; from a magnificent edifice, he would on a sudden hide himself in a place, whence a decent freedman could scarcely come out in a decent manner; one while he would choose to lead the life of a rake at Rome, another while that of a teacher at Athens; born under the evil influence of every Vertumnus.  That buffoon, Volanerius, when the deserved gout had crippled his fingers, maintained [a fellow] that he had hired at a daily price, who took up the dice and put them into a box for him:  yet by how much more constant was he in his vice, by so much less wretched was he than the former person, who is now in difficulties by too loose, now by too tight a rein.

“Will you not tell to-day, you varlet, whither such wretched stuff as this tends?” “Why, to you, I say.”  “In what respect to me, scoundrel?” “You praise the happiness and manners of the ancient [Roman] people; and yet, if any god were on a sudden to reduce you to to them, you, the same man, would earnestly beg to be excused; either because you are not really of opinion that what you bawl about is right; or because you are irresolute in defending the right, and hesitate, in vain desirous to extract your foot from the mire.  At Rome, you long for the country; when you are in the country, fickle, you extol the absent city to the skies.  If haply you are invited out nowhere to supper, you praise your quiet dish of vegetables; and as if you ever go abroad upon compulsion, you think yourself so happy, and do so hug yourself, that you are obliged to drink out nowhere.  Should Maecenas lay his commands on you to come late, at the first lighting up of the lamps, as his guest; ’Will nobody bring the oil with more expedition?  Does any body hear?’ You stutter with a mighty bellowing, and storm with rage.  Milvius, and the buffoons [who expected to sup with you], depart, after having uttered curses not proper to be repeated.  Any one may say, for I own [the truth], that I am easy to be seduced by my appetite; I snuff up my nose at a savory smell: